As we approach the anniversary of Noah’s unexpected death, I think I’m finally ready to write this blog.

Still, it’s hard.

Hard to imagine a life without him even though I’m living it.

He was by my side for thirteen very important years.

Not long enough.

I’m a dog person. Loved all that have been part of my family.

But Noah was different.

We joked that he was not a dog at all. A “duman.” Part dog, part human. The best of both worlds.

When he was little, he had a fierce determination. Confined to a playpen for his safety and to safeguard my belongings, he would scale the metal rungs, then flop over the side onto the floor. He couldn’t stand being away from me.

I tried the kennel at night thing for a few days. But he’d cry his little heart out until I took him into my arms, and he’d fall asleep against me, often with his head resting on the back of my neck.

He rode shotgun in the U-Haul during our move to Oregon from Phoenix. And he kept me company as we explored our new city—checking out a new neighborhood every weekend until we found the perfect place to live.

He was my hiking buddy—even though he often wanted to cut those hikes short. He did couch to 5K with me several times, although he preferred the couch.

When I met the man who was going to become my husband, he had a rule—he didn’t want to date a woman who had a dog.

But Noah wasn’t a dog. A “duman” after all. It didn’t take long for him to drop his rule and fall in love with Noah, too.

Noah was a bit of an interior decorator—kicking every perfectly placed pillow off the couch to the floor was his favorite past time.

He could break out of a kennel, find his way onto the countertop, get locked in the pantry where he opened the childproof trash can.

He snored like a truck driver after too many beers.

My daughter’s dog Maya was often his partner in crime, although I usually blamed her.

If the suitcase came out, he’d slip into the car and refuse to get out, not wanting to be left behind.

As he grew old, he developed health problems. Seizures, a heart murmur. He was on meds for skin allergies at least half of his life.

He looked like a puppy until the end, and he remained my baby.

He was slowing down, but I thought we still had time. Lots of Cocker Spaniels lived to the age of sixteen.

But then one day, just over two months after his thirteenth birthday, he went downhill— fast. His vet wondered if he had a brain tumor. When we got back from a trip, one eye was bulging. But then it went back to normal. Maybe no tumor after all?

One day he was stealing my dinner, the next he showed no interest in food—which had always been his favorite thing. He didn’t want to stand up. I knew it was time. Still, I held out for a miracle. I couldn’t imagine life without him.

It was the Fourth of July. The vet was closed. It was hard to even find a place that would see him. We finally located an emergency vet about 45 minutes away. Because of the pandemic, we weren’t allowed inside. Staff came out to get him while we waited in the car—for 5 agonizingly long hours. With no real idea what was wrong, they sent us home with a smidgen of hope.

But the next day, we brought him to his regular vet. My daughter was the lead vet tech, and I knew it was the end when she brought us to a room I’d never been in before. The euthanasia room.

My daughter assured me it was more comfortable, the only reason we were there, but I knew. Tests were run. Inconclusive, but Noah was suffering. I promised him, I’d never let him suffer. Everyone felt the time had come.

Still, letting go was the hardest decision I’d ever made. But it was time.

If death can be beautiful, my daughter made it so. Our little family gathered around him. Me and my husband, my daughter and her husband and Maya. We took our time, passing him around and loving on him as best we could.

He was so light in my arms as I rocked him like the baby he was, whispering how much I loved him. And how much it meant to me having him in my life.

He died in my lap with everyone laying a hand on him.

He was at peace.

In the end it was the only thing I could give him. Peace and my undying love.

He lives on in my cozy mysteries.

Until we meet again…